The Drabble Series
by Darmed
Summary: A series of drabbles, subjects ranging from Mystrade to Sherlock and John being inanimate objects. This is the start of a very long series, all written for the JohnLock party 2011.
1. Pebbles

_Pebbles_

Sherlock swims in his tiny bowl and thinks, what if he was to jump out right now? After a few seconds, he's forgotten this. Then, he thinks, perhaps that godforsaken castle could fuck off so he'd have a bit more thinking space.

Sherlock knows his mind is small, yet larger than most of his species. He knows his scales shine a bit brighter than the others before him and he knows he couldn't even grasp onto a thought for a full minute if he tried.

For a few days, Sherlock Goldfish is alone. He swims in circles and thinks of something different each time he passes the tiny plastic treasure chest which could crush him if the lid were to snap shut. He thinks what it would be like for someone to join him behind the neverending glass walls. He thinks that plant in the corner hasn't even responded to the flapping of his tale and finally concludes the black pebbles look especially shiny for this time of the year.

When he is joined by another fish, yellow, bright, crooked tail, he thinks nothing much of it except for 'oh'. He doesn't greet the other, and even if he had once planned to do so, he would have forgotten it halfway through.

Sherlock swims in his tiny bowl and thinks. He thinks his new companion looks as if he'd enjoy a good conversation. He thinks his companion looks rather sweet, in his own, googly-eyed way. After a few hours of this, he thinks that perhaps, he might just love his new friend a teensy bit.

The thought is as fleeting as the rest of them.


	2. Above Zero

_Above Zero_

John remembers his birth as if it were yesterday (which, coincidentally, it was).

He may not remember the time when he was still nothing but water, but he remembers waking up stone cold, in a dark room, stuck in between two layers and a set of toes.

He does not remember his mum, nor does he remember his dad, but he was certain they wouldn't have been able to tell him of great past adventures or quests of romance. After all, what more could an ice-cube do but dissolve above zero?

John names himself Watson, because he quite fancies the sound of two names, and tries to count the minutes he's alive. After forty, he gives up, for he isn't planning on making a log of lying down and doing nothing and recording time is tedious.

After God knows how long, the drawer opens and John Watson, ice-cube extraordinaire is joined by fuzzy meat that would be fingers if they'd only have nails and if he would have any breath, he'd sigh.

John Watson was just about to give up any resemblance of thought he was able to have in his poor, frozen conscience when the door opens once again and a pale hand pulls the drawer forward.

He is lifted by long, thin and especially bony fingers and John thinks that this is a rather heavenly way to die.

John Watson, after fortysomething minutes, finally fills his purpose and dissolves in a mug of hydrochloric acid.


	3. A Quarter Gallon

___A Quarter Gallon_

John didn't think badly of himself, nor particularly well. He always figured he was just there. After all, being made of plastic, what more could a bottle of water do than stand and look pretty?

John distinctly remembers being bought. A pound fifty, they'd paid for him, and John tried his best to not be offended. After all, his skin did tell the lie of him being filled up to a quarter gallon. When he is brought back to the man's flat, not even having caught his name yet, he is stuffed in a fridge, right next to a head of which he can't seem to find the body and a smelly carton of milk. He tries to inch away from it, yet even if he could, it seemed a jar of fingers and an open tupperware containing hair barred his path.

After countless of minutes consisting of countless of seconds, the door opens and he is wrenched loose and put right next to a microscope and petri dishes containing things he'd really rather not contemplate. Pain as his cap is screwed loose, soothed by pale fingers, then weakness as he is both slowly emptied into several petri dishes and engulfed by heart-shaped lips.

He thinks they feel rather warm and that he's never felt anything like it.

John distinctly remembers being born, long, thin fingers holding him beneath a tap while slow humming sounded. The fact he doesn't know how he got here or who he is, doesn't particularly bother him.


End file.
